


Lessons

by thegildedmagpie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Corporal Punishment, Domestic Violence, Eöl ranting about flowers, Eöl thinks he's a good father, Father-Son Relationship, Father/Son Incest, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Knifeplay, Language Kink, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, The Author Regrets Everything, belt whipping, elf racism, emotional father-son conversations in 25 words or less, he's really not, in reverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5232248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegildedmagpie/pseuds/thegildedmagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eöl has some legitimate worries about Maeglin. Eöl does not express these feelings well.</p><p>
  <i>Rebellion is a trait that the Noldor, almost by definition, share.  Will Maeglin grow into the same wanderlust that at last brought Aredhel home to Eöl’s hearth?  But where can it take him?  What bright lover might lure their twilight child into the outside world’s cruel wars and crueler mercies?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And how may he be bound closer?  When such discipline as this is necessary, what can be done to stop it from driving the child away?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Say it again,” Eöl snaps, almost absently.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Let me reiterate the tags here: This fic is genuinely disturbing, even for those of us who are connoisseurs of the profoundly wrong. It explores multiple forms of serious child abuse from the perspective of the abuser.
> 
> Additionally, ‘ware the pairing: this is incest, this is non-con, and it would be non-con even if the victim weren’t underage. (How old is Maeglin here? _As old as you need him to be._ At least for canon compliance, he has to be older than twelve?) 
> 
> Also, elf racism, but Noldor fangirl that I am, I can admit Eöl has a point there.
> 
> Originally posted on Tumblr under @magpiescholar.

The boy who was recently named Maeglin has always made his own practice swords, but he loathes every one of them.

Eöl is adept in the use of many weapons – he bears a sword at home, a stave when he wanders through the woods with Aredhel, axe and dagger among the dwarves, whatever he should please on the road. Yet he’s never served as Maeglin’s master at arms – one of his quiet household gives the boy what lessons he shall have, teaching him basic movements and forms, then his father has him spend a daily hour at practice to rest his sharp eyes from the high contrast and wavering heat of the forge where they work.

This practice began almost as soon as Eöl deemed the boy old enough to begin forge-work, and he bore his first off-balance blade to the drill yard along one side of the house called Gladuial.

Once he’s at his practice, Maeglin always finds the flaws in composition that affect the sword or the dagger (Eöl has made it very clear that he doesn’t begin to trust him with an axe yet). He generally spends the entire practice hour irked and restive, putting frustration into every stroke, itching to get back into the forge so that soon he might steal time from the apprentice-work he’s assigned to make a better weapon that corrects the thickness _there_ , the imbalance between blade and pommel _here_ , and work out which error it is that he feels in his shoulder and which in his wrist ….

By the time he receives his name, Maeglin has already a rare ability to balance a weapon so it’s an extension of the wielder’s will. He still knows those abilities imperfect, and if he’s to spend an hour with his own work every day, perfection is what he must aim for. Even though his preference for his left hand is only slight, unlike those unfortunate elves his mother tells him about who are born favoring one hand always over the other, using an unbalanced weapon for an hour, with either arm or both, leaves him less able in the forge. (It never occurs to him to conserve his strength at weapons practice for the art that means more to him. Even if it did, it would never occur to him, even when Eöl’s hammer blows are audible from the practice yard, that shirking might go unobserved.)

So Maeglin strives for perfection above the skill he’s already attained. He turns into a fair if unimaginative fighter, too, but this is secondary.

It’s not that he’s unaware that this is the point of the exercise. It’s just that it doesn’t help.

 

-

Maeglin has never been sure whether he won his name by pleasing his father or was cursed with it for aggravating his master.

Eöl will never say that he isn’t sure either.

 

-

 

Eöl claimed his wife despite her heritage. When he saw her, he wanted to know her, even though he suspected her of Noldorin ancestry. And when he knew her, he loved her wholly and helplessly, loved her with a fire he sees reflected in her pale eyes. 

Their son terrifies him.

The child was born in their bed, caught by his father’s hands after the Avarin midwife was dismissed for the final minutes of labor. From the child’s birth, Eöl has been able to see the traces of a kinslaying Noldor in his son. The taint of Aman flaws the precious metal of their child, this alloy of himself and his beloved, from the lightness of the boy’s complexion to the narrower set of his cheekbones to the ease with which, some months later, the child began to learn both Aredhel’s native language and his own. Eöl forbade her to speak the tongue to their son or indeed to her husband. (She continued to use it in bed, at moments when she knew him to be at his most distracted and past the point of processing her words.) When the child used words Eöl didn’t recognize, his mother paid for it, and she smiled at him when he struck her and told him – in Quenya – _“Keep trying to stop me.”_

Eöl placed tiny hammers in tiny hands as soon as he could. In the art of the forge he saw the best chance to tame the acquisitive nature the Noldor share – Maeglin’s hunger for words and stories seems to him not as fearsome as the lust for new kingdoms that mars his maternal bloodline, but far more dangerous than Aredhel’s passion for rare skins, prizes of the hunt, and the woodland flowers he’s carried back for her from all corners of Nan Elmoth to plant in her garden.

He will make Maeglin stronger than his kinsmen. He will raise him to know that his blood belongs to the soil of Middle-Earth. He will purify the matter of his making until there is no chance at all that he will be drawn away from his home by the bright promises of Noldorin handiwork and the unavoidable ruin that untrustworthy kindred brings upon the lands they claim as their own.

Aredhel has described the work of her brother upon his trees, sculpted imitations of what was unnecessary to begin with. Eöl is grudgingly impressed – it seems Aredhel’s cohort was left altogether without smiths, as all the craftsmen went with Fëanor their master, and Turgon and a few of their craftsmen had to cobble together a rough knowledge of the art solely from descriptions by their cousins. It would not be hateful to Eöl to see those golden and silver trees, nor the little jeweled flowers whose cunning petals she describes her brother so carefully shaping to adorn the branches.

Aredhel is a jewel of unutterable value, and Maeglin captures her light in the finest setting Eöl’s work has ever yielded. Yet Eöl knows his work left half undone. He will not be content, as the Noldor might be, with a jeweled flower that captures a facet of light and hungrily seeks more. His son will be a flower wrought of black steel.

And who is any to forbid that he may take his dark little flower unto himself?

 

-

 

Eöl is standing in the shadows by the high hearth of his bedroom when Maeglin comes in, head half-lowered, eyelashes veiling his eyes so it looks as though they’re cast down respectfully to the floor. Eöl knows better. He knows it better still when he casts the leaf-shaped dagger upon the floor, and Maeglin flinches before its loud clatter has time to sound.

“Shut the door,” he bids the boy, and Maeglin takes his precious time obeying him, maintaining a measured dignity that Eöl can’t help but approve of. But there is still a matter to discuss. That is why he ordered the boy to attend on him in his room.

Eöl takes a step forward toward Maeglin and the dagger that now lies between them. “I don’t recall giving you permission to be in the forge alone.”

Black eyes flash as Maeglin looks up, but the boy says nothing.

“Thought you’d hidden it well, did you?” In truth, he did. Eöl almost didn’t catch the tug of something off amidst the ore in the bin; it’s entirely possible that Maeglin could have slipped this work in with his assigned tasks, and Eöl none the wiser, if the dagger hadn’t been found today.

Maeglin bends his head a little further, though, with a visible rush of chagrin, even shame, and Eöl thinks it no bad thing for the boy to think he did badly at his lie. 

He stares at his son across the expanse of floor. Eöl’s frame is not especially tall as elves go, and even though he’s been some days away from the anvil, his stock in trade is heavy and had to be carried from his horse to the Naugrim trader; his shoulders are often slightly stooped. But the man who some call the Dark Elf is imposing nonetheless. Powerful arms circled by dark bands of ink-work lie still at his sides, not needing to move in order to threaten. Eöl’s hair is cut short, falling nail-straight to his jaw, and as raven black as his son’s; bold features balance the long, delicate curve of ears knifing through the thick curtain.

“Did you do this because you wanted to come with me?” He does not move as he speaks, fixed as a cliff where he has chosen to pause.

Maeglin glances up again and shakes his head. Eöl is both surprised and a little disappointed to detect no lie in his denial. It dents his gratification that the boy who used to run off with his mother and neglect his lessons whenever Eöl was gone is now pursuing those lessons too singlemindedly.

“Why, then.”

“I was dissatisfied with the blade I was using for practice.” Maeglin hadn’t been excused from that daily duty in his father’s absence.

“Then it was yours to wait until I could return to better advise you.” Eöl could shake the boy. Maeglin’s slim, quick hands might lose their dexterity in an instant if he turned the hammer at the wrong moment, and his mastery of the fire is not yet so advanced that a flare might not distract him. He’s far too young to go unsupervised among the dangers that lie unmarked in the workshop of a true weapons master.

“You hardly advise me as it is,” Maeglin murmurs rebelliously.

Eöl’s voice drops to the low slide of a blade drawn far too slowly over a whetstone. “What. Did you say.”

“That I tire of using poor blades.”

“Speak again the words you spoke, if you have boldness enough.”

Maeglin is shrinking at his tone, but he straightens at the implied slur. “You don’t help me with practice weapons. Why should I not craft them alone? I always do.”

Now Eöl moves again, stepping over the dagger and in one quick imperious motion seizing Maeglin’s arm. “Speak the words, boy.”

Maeglin flinches, his eyes going wide at the touch, but he flings the words at his father in a snarl that makes him sound suddenly older than his scant years. “You hardly advise me as it is.”

“Then you’d have me forbid your habit of chasing deer with your mother instead of completing the tasks assigned to you, that you shall have more time to be advised.”

Maeglin’s face fades, his countenance set. “That’s not fair to her.”

Eöl knows it isn’t, which doesn’t help his mood. “Say it again.”

Maeglin shakes his head in refusal, lips thinning.

Eöl shakes him once, a light shove and jerk, and lets go. “Then undress. At once.”

It’s apparent the boy was expecting the order, and he strips efficiently, jerking his wool tunic over his head and shedding the fine linen shirt and doeskin trousers rapidly, though he tosses his clothes upon the floor with near contempt. The mood seems unlike him. What should prompt defiance at this point in the interaction? They’ve never taught Maeglin to guard himself from the eyes of his parents, only from those of Eöl’s servants; and Eöl thinks grimly, _what has she been telling him now?_ But this won’t be the first time he’s put his child to discipline, and Maeglin is used to punishment directly upon his skin – sometimes even in the forge with the heat of the fire warming one side while he’s pressed down over his apprentice’s anvil. Eöl prefers to correct his son in private, but some errors call for immediate instruction; their shared craft is too dangerous sometimes to do otherwise.

He nudges Maeglin toward the low, carved couch in front of the fireplace, and Maeglin makes a low sound in his throat as he stumbles. Dangerously, Eöl warns him, “Quiet.”

Maeglin knows what to do; he has for years. He arranges himself without protest at the center of the long cushion, kneeling with his arms folded onto the back of the bench, his hands gripping opposite elbows. The position gives Eöl a good view of what he has wrought, bathing the child’s back in ruddy light as he waits with knees bent, legs parted, spine rigid. The soles of his feet look curiously vulnerable, upturned and pale.

A leather belt is lying forgotten on a table nearby, where it ended up when Aredhel came to Eöl’s chamber to welcome him home from his journey. As he picks it up, one of the clasps he’s made to adorn Aredhel’s hair topples to one side; it’s the one in the form of antlers, its texture realistic, but the edges glittering with sharp fragments of crystal that bite at the light when she turns her head. The belt’s leather slides warm and supple through his hands, pressing into the webbing between palms and thumbs as he tests it.

“Say it again,” he tells Maeglin.

His son lets his brow fall onto overlapped arms. “You hardly advise me as it is.”

The leather snaps across the tender upper edge of his thighs; Maeglin cries out, high and sharp, and Eöl winces in annoyance at the sound. “ _Quiet_.”

Maeglin presses his face harder into his arms, bracing himself, just beginning to shake.

Eöl is never anything but methodical in discipline. He does not, so he tells himself, let his anger guide him. But as his arm moves, rhythmic as the hammer and as precise, bringing up a painful flush on Maeglin’s back and hips, he broods a little on the nature of the offense.

Maeglin is getting ambitious. Ambition does not displease Eöl. It’s a trait they share. But that he is beginning to devalue the aid of his father … this is not so acceptable.

“Say it again.”

“You hardly – advise me as it is – _ah!_ – I’m sorry –”

“Quiet.”

Maeglin is writhing a little on the bench now, his weight shifting from one knee to the other. Eöl thinks his son is starting to cry, and he has to pause and master irritation before he can continue the strapping. Maeglin must have known he’d earn this punishment, and that’s the crux of the matter. Has it stopped mattering to him?

Rebellion is a trait that the Noldor, almost by definition, share. Will Maeglin grow into the same wanderlust that at last brought Aredhel home to Eöl’s hearth? But where can it take him? What bright lover might lure their twilight child into the outside world’s cruel wars and crueler mercies?

And how may he be bound closer? When such discipline as this is necessary, what can be done to stop it from driving the child away?

“Say it again,” Eöl snaps, almost absently.

But something has shifted in the boy since Eöl was last paying attention to him, and the words come out with acid alacrity …

_… in Quenya._

“You hardly advise me as it is, _Father_.”

The fire pops resinous noise into the resulting silence.

Maeglin had gone still and proud, his head tossed back, and after long seconds, his shoulders and thighs begin once again to quiver. Eöl looks at the belt in his hand as though he’s never seen it before.

Joined arms provide a convenient place for bruising fingers to jerk the boy backward, taking him off balance onto the deep, sable-dark fur spread over the floor before the fire. Maeglin claws instinctively at his father’s forearm for support, then winces as he lands hard on his backside. The belt is slapped around both wrists and yanked tight, then folded back and jerked through the buckle again. It’s not a tie that would hold up to much struggling – Eöl makes a mental note to bring a set of fetters to his room lest this be necessary again – but Maeglin’s eyes are wide and liquid with fear through the hair that’s fallen over his brow. Eöl does not think he will need to anticipate an ill-advised bid for freedom.

The dagger lies where it fell. Eöl slaps the end of the belt viciously across Maeglin’s face, eliciting a muffled cry – even he has to admit that was a bit cruel – and goes to fetch it while the boy recovers, bending like a gale-tossed pine to sweep the knife off the floorboards. When he rounds on his son again, Maeglin shuffles an inch backwards over the deep pelt, but he doesn’t even test the stretch of the belt confining his wrists. His father feels a dark swell of satisfaction and stalks menacingly forward, sweeping his cloak aside with an unconscious jerk as though preparing to accost a stranger on the road.

Maeglin’s eyes flick to the blade, but then they rise to his father’s face and stay there, not flinching as the dagger is brought in an abrupt, abortive motion to hover two inches in front of his nose, edge toward his face. His gaze is glassy and wary as a young stag’s – in velvet, and not long parted from its mother, and not quite sure what to do confronted by hunters. One eye is redder than the other; the belt must have struck there.

Eöl stares down at his son past the knife, forbidding of aspect but with the same eyes meeting and holding. Neither move, Maeglin’s fingers lying slack now in their makeshift bonds.

“Do you fear me, child?” Eöl asks.

“You won’t slay me,” Maeglin answers.

“What makes you so sure?”

“I’m too precious to you,” says Maeglin, but his eyes drop for a lightning instant to the blade. “I’m the only child you have.”

Were he trying to persuade, this would strike more to the heart of the matter than he knows, Eöl thinks with a pain like the stab of a twig into the meat of an unwary hand. But Maeglin’s words are matter-of-fact; he believes them altogether. Eöl’s resolve increases.

His free hand is gripping the edge of his cloak; he releases the fabric and gestures perfunctorily to the blade. “Lick it.”

Maeglin cringes back a little.

“This is not so hard a thing. Lick it.”

Maeglin glances up at his father’s mahogany-hard face. His tongue steals out, pale and soft-looking as his bare feet earlier seemed. His head tips back to let him reach as he carefully traces a line along the flat of the blade.

“Again.”

This time he laps across it, tongue broad and swift, which makes him crane up a little further.

“Don’t stop.”

Maeglin looks at his father for a moment, those black eyes wells of inscrutable thought, then takes a breath and falls to licking. Eöl holds the dagger still just above the level of his mouth, making him tip his head back to reach. Eöl’s boots are planted in the skin rug, one of them between Maeglin’s calves where the boy perches naked and on the verge of sprawling, with one knee half-drawn up to compensate for the poor balance of hands confined by black leather. When dedicated lapping in one spot evidently fails to satisfy, he takes to running his tongue up and down the blade, still carefully avoiding the edge. Eöl can see his jaw working with the effort of his task. His instincts are good; his head begins to nod with the more determined strokes, reaching more of the metal.

When Eöl turns the blade over, Maeglin gasps and cringes, hands coming fruitlessly up so he almost overbalances; but then he understands the requirement without either of them having to speak, and he quickly goes to work washing every inch of what is now the blade’s underside, while Eöl watches the moisture dry from the top.

“Good,” Eöl says at last, and Maeglin subsides with a sigh. His bound hands, which had hovered a little in the air, return to his lap.

Eöl stares at his son. Who, indeed, is to say what a master smith may do with his apprentice, with his son, with the work of his own hands?

“Get up onto your knees,” he orders.

Maeglin rocks forward to all fours, supporting himself on loosely closed fists as he swings his legs around. Eöl is pleased to see him obey so rapidly. It seems the lesson is sinking in.

“Open your mouth.”

His son stills and looks up at him in undisguised terror. But Eöl’s gaze turns flinty, though his face stays impassive, and Maeglin winces, swallows, and lets his lips part.

The leaf-shaped blade presses his moist lower lip flat. Maeglin’s eyes squeeze shut. Slowly, with perfect control, Eöl slides the point deeper, letting it bisect the boy’s tongue with a light graze, holding the slick strength of it down. He doesn’t go deep enough to make his son gag; as it is, Maeglin isn’t breathing, just waiting there on his knees, still and silent and obedient with his mouth open, the flush of the belt developing across his face and his hands bound upon his bare thighs.

And now to complete the lesson.

Maeglin’s eyes fly open as the blade is withdrawn straight and swift. Eöl drops the dagger carelessly on the hearth to reach down and open his trousers. 

Maeglin jumps only a little at the knife’s clatter, and not at all at Eöl’s gesture. He stays still and obedient upon the floor. The sight of his father’s length does not seem to surprise him; not even for how hard it is. Maeglin licks his lips, an innocent gesture, not lascivious; his eyes are a little nervous, but he leans forward carefully, fingers lacing tighter together within the leather bonds. He seems to know he’s expected to come closer, to let his breath wash over the stiffness before him. His father wonders again what manner of story Aredhel’s been telling him.

Eöl’s fingers slip deep into Maeglin’s hair, drawing the boy’s narrow cheek against the hard curve of his hipbone. It’s a little gratifying that Maeglin gasps and nuzzles him as much as the firm grasp permits. Still he’s impassive as he slides Maeglin’s face closer to its errand.

Maeglin hesitates, sitting back on his heels though the fingers in his hair tug. Perhaps Eöl does have to instruct the boy on what to do; perhaps he’s just being stubborn. “Open it,” Eöl bids him, and Maeglin does. “Wider.” Wincing at the soreness of his jaw, he tries to obey.

Eöl lays two fingers into his mouth with the free hand. Maeglin’s tongue feels wet and cool, its texture velvet. He determines that this is indeed the farthest his son can open his mouth, and wonders briefly if he’s too young to be taught this.

_He’s not too young to defy me by doing forge-work with none to watch over him. This is far safer than that._

Eöl withdraws his hand and uses it to cup Maeglin’s jaw, rubbing distractedly at the hinge of it. Maeglin groans softly in relief. “Quiet,” Eöl says absently, making him shudder. Cradling his son’s head between his palms, he guides him closer. “You may use your hands.” Maeglin struggles for a second, then gets the belt-buckle moving along the leather and is able to twist his wrists until he can slip his hands free. Hesitantly, glancing up through sooty lashes for permission, he rests his fingers crookedly on his father’s hipbones.

“I don’t want to feel your teeth,” Eöl warns him, then rocks back and uses both hands to guide his son’s mouth onto his own length, slipping the tip onto his tongue. The head of Eöl’s cock tucks neatly into the hot purse of the hard palate for a moment, then he murmurs, “Tighten your lips. Good. Now suck.”

Maeglin’s lips come together in a moist, tense ring around him; his cheeks tighten and hollow slightly under Eöl’s thumb as he tries a tentative draw with his wet mouth. “Pulse,” Eöl commands, his voice dropping lower in his chest; his son looks up confused, then awkwardly moves his mouth. “Is this still hurting?” Maeglin nods as best he can, a touch of pleading in his eyes as he meets Eöl’s gaze. “You’re sore from the licking. You shall have to practice; I expect you to show better endurance in the future. Suck.”

He tries. “Harder,” Eöl advises him, and he redoubles his efforts. Now the suction is satisfying, growing slick and rhythmic as Maeglin settles into his task. Eöl makes no sound to encourage him, but gives his hair a light caress. This sign of his father’s pleasure seems to electrify him; Maeglin’s back arches a little, though his hips don’t move as Eöl might have expected if he were more experienced at carnal pleasures, and he focuses intently on the sucking.

“Now let us move your head,” says Eöl, and his fingers tighten on the back of Maeglin’s neck, shifting him slightly forward so he feels the brush of softness against his glans before drawing back as Maeglin chokes. He lets the boy master himself before he presses back in again – and though his expression changes not at all, Eöl is pleased that Maeglin’s instinct was to suppress the gagging by breathing through his nose, and he made only a token effort to pull away before Eöl’s hand arrested him. He has some natural skill; more than that, he’s making every effort to please his father. He’s learned something tonight.

He lets the time it took Maeglin to suppress his gag reflex set the pace, and for minutes he shiftly slowly deeper, then back. He’s nowhere near as deep in the boy’s small mouth as he would be in Aredhel’s – but then, Aredhel’s enthusiasm to use her mouth on him is equaled only by his desire to service her thus – and the point, here, is not his pleasure.

His pleasure he does consider, though, as he begins again to instruct. “Draw back. No, your lips stay tight. Lick the head. Keep on with that. Now deep again. You can go deeper, Maeglin. I shall teach you to take me deeper still.” He’s working his son’s head on his length now with close, caring hands that do not allow excess movement. His hips don’t stir; his self-control is complete.

At last Maeglin’s unskilled efforts fall together, and he takes the absence of correction for the encouragement it is. It is not too many more minutes before Eöl speaks in a voice not quite even, something warmer than his usual tones: “I shall spend in your mouth now. It will taste odd, but you must try to swallow it. Now.”

Maeglin whimpers, high and sharp, as his father’s hips jerk twice, convulsing into orgasm as the pulse in Maeglin’s lower lip and that at the underside of Eöl’s cock flutter together. Just as he’s too far gone to chide Aredhel for lapsing into her native tongue at his moment of crisis, he does not speak to scold the boy now, instead focusing on cradling his head without grasping his delicate skull too tightly as his back bends in climax.

Once released, the boy frantically presses his wrist to his mouth, pale fluid oozing from the corner of his mouth as his throat works. Eöl chooses to overlook his failure to do as he’s told. Having restored his apparel to normal, he runs a perfunctory hand over Maeglin’s short hair instead, and gives him time to recover before he bids him, “Dress.”

Maeglin looks up at him with his dark eyes slightly wet, one eyelid still noticeably more swollen. He climbs trembling to his feet, looking around for his clothing, and hurries to obey his father. Eöl notes this with nothing but calm satisfaction.

“I expect you have understood my displeasure.” His pleasure, too, but that is something else again, a different kind of lesson.

“Yes, Father,” Maeglin murmurs.

“You are confined to your room for a period of two days. I will have your books removed that you have time to think upon obedience.”

“Yes, Father,” he says again, but this time a little sourly, a little unwillingly, so Eöl knows him unbroken.

There’s probably nothing wrong with that, after all, he thinks, provided the boy can be prevented from putting himself in the way of danger – provided any Noldor can.

“And on the third day, you will come to me after supper.”

Maeglin, now dressed, doesn’t bother to express his obedience in words this time, but slips out silently. Eöl, all the same, is fairly sure they’ve understood one another perfectly.


End file.
